


love of the highest order

by lovebot (bluelions)



Series: love maketh man [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Canon Compliant, Kuroo Tetsurou-centric, M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:21:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27365716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluelions/pseuds/lovebot
Summary: Kuroo contemplates where his love lies.
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou/Yaku Morisuke
Series: love maketh man [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1961914
Comments: 14
Kudos: 18





	love of the highest order

**Author's Note:**

> For HQ Angst Week 2020 - Day 3: Defeat

Now, where does that fall, really, you ask. You’ve lined up your chinaware, blue and gold, and planted your feet firmly at the threshold. Perhaps you have a kettle full of boiled water, or a cup of green tea, or a stale glass of something caramel and used-to-be-fizzy, and now you must answer it for yourself.

You can say you’ve waited for this moment your entire life, or you can say you have never dreaded anything more. Many probably wouldn’t care and reply, “Do what you think is best!”

What a load of bull. What’s best today is not the best tomorrow, and the tomorrows keep on coming and coming and com-

Some days you count and find one less bowl than the day before. You could look into his eyes and blink and find that there is just one. There are many days that they’ve broken into a hundred thousand pieces, and you are left standing there lamenting the steaming pot between your hands. Maybe that was the day of decision, and it was ruined by something like university rejections or a plane ticket to Russia.

It’s worth mentioning that you haven’t spared a drop since he left. What can you say, you’re a frugal man. But you’ve always threatened to. You stood above his chipped, cracked dish and tipped the glass until it teetered between all or nothing.

Oh, that’s what it is, isn’t it? You’re afraid of his hands sneaking up your sides and leaving warm trails of promise, caressing your elbows, and taking grip of your wrist while the other cups your jaw. He could do it. You could do it. Did he try when you weren’t looking? Did _you_ try when he wasn’t looking?

It is also worth mentioning that you probably suspect this kettle is bottomless. I mean, you’ve had to spill _something_ these past 25 years.

Friends: a decent amount.

Volleyball: potentially the most eagerly poured of all.

Career: you definitely regret how much is in there; is it too late to pour it out?

If there’s a table then things must go under it as much as on top of it, like pets and pens and predictably hardened pieces of rice that stab your heel. Somewhere there are a few intentionally tossed china.

Family: there may be a bit of residue left, still.

Art: you forgot about that one somewhere in elementary school.

A name that stuck to the back of your throat when you cried: well, he’s getting married soon you think.

Sometimes he comes back. Not crawling on his knees like you two have joked about before (a bedroom, curtains drawn, bodies tight) but he returns to breathe the same air as you and speak a language growing rougher and rougher on his tongue. Still sharp though, always sharp.

Is it this shrinkage of distance that wakes you up at night? You knock everything off your bedside in search of the handle and stumble in a daze to your collection of porcelain and plastic, shaking down to your bones. You can hear it sloshing around.

It is probably worth mentioning that you’re sure he could drain you dry. Someone can tell you, “Well, there’s always more to give at the end of the day” and you’d have to say, tearful and empty, “Well, no, there’s really not”.

You’re sure because you’ve seen the way he’s drained the sky of its constellations and poured them into your eyes. “Light for you to see me better with,” he said that pitch-black night.

Why are you saving this again? I thought we established this was bottomless, and, honestly, it wouldn’t hurt to spare an ounce for your friendship jar. You trust him too much, have some faith in yourself, you should know when to- 

You stare down into this jar-bowl-bottle-pot and realize you don’t even recognize what’s in it anymore. Was it pink? Was it clear? Was it sticky or did it slip between your fingers like hair?

You can’t remember anything, not really. Not the date, not the weather forecast, not the day you decided to save up your infinity and hiss at anything that came near it. You are protective to a fault, and that’s something you wish didn’t read in his voice.

There is a feeling you do recall, and it’s called what-if. After all, it’s why you’re here in the first place. You feel the ghostly touch of his face against yours and remember the hope he put between your two lips. It was a clean breakup, but you held his words between your teeth until they’ve gone limp. He probably told you not to do that, assumed it would happen, but you forgot what that felt like so it doesn’t matter, not really.

Well, maybe what-if can be love.

_What if he was drowning?_ Then you’d save him.

_What if he lost his arm?_ Then you’d hold his other hand.

_What if he loved you and then never loved you again?_ Then you’d say, “But what if he did?”

Another day and night will pass, and another tomorrow will become today. You can pick up your passions with your bare hands and threaten to fill his cup; call him right now, do it, you are only several hours apart. You can choose to pour your way left to right, right to left, and then find that maybe there is nothing left for him and-

Oh, you’re crying again. Was this not the moment you’d been waiting for, whether in glee or anguish? Anticipation is a blind judge you know.

_What if he loves you and you never love him again?_ Then what?

Another day and night will pass, and another tomorrow will become today. You can pick up your passions with your bare hands or you can dig your fingernails into your palms; maybe you can peel yourself apart because deep down, you know all of this belongs to him.

**Author's Note:**

> i honestly cannot tell how much of this is or is not personal to me, but i wanted to talk about what it's like to avoid the idea of being emotionally and mentally out of energy. it's something that even when you run away from, it's always waiting for you at the end of the road. is it better to face the suffering head-on? who knows.
> 
> thanks for reading! your kudos and comments are much appreciated <3
> 
> catch me on twitter [@softresetter](https://twitter.com/softresetter)


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